Chapter 17 Already Seen
Lyanna
I had a plan.
It wasn’t a good one. Or a safe one. But it was the only path that didn’t end with me bleeding out on stone or disappearing quietly into a Triune ledger.
Panic was useless here. Panic got omegas dragged out by the hair and reassigned to rooms no one ever returned from.
So I chose precision.
If I survived this place, it wouldn’t be because of hope or courage or the mercy of Drakovian nobles. It would be because I moved when others stayed still. Because I used what I had. Because I never reached for anything I couldn’t justify.
Elias Veras wasn’t an impulse.
He was a calculated risk.
I spent most of the morning watching instead of working—head bowed, hands busy, eyes tracking reflections in water troughs and polished metal. Guard rotations. Bell changes. Which corridors filled and emptied, and when. The council’s men were still searching for me. I’d seen them twice already, boots too clean, eyes too sharp, pretending to inspect supply crates while their attention slid over faces instead of ledgers.
They weren’t subtle. But they were thorough.
Which meant I couldn’t wander.
I couldn’t ask.
And I absolutely couldn’t be seen seeking out a Drakovian noble.
So the plan had to work with the flow of the pens, not against it.
Actionable. Repeatable. Low risk.
I repeated it silently as I moved through the deserted hallway.
Step one: be seen—but not noticed.
Laundry was the spine of the compound. It ran everywhere. Pens, kitchens, infirmaries, even noble quarters. Cloth passed through corridors bodies were barred from. Laundry girls were invisible—heads down, hands busy, never worth a second glance.
I would become one.
Step two: move legitimately.
Omegas were reassigned constantly. Overflow groups. Cleaning rotations. Someone was always sick. Someone always missing. If I took a basket when no one was watching and walked like I’d been ordered to, no one would question it.
Step three: force proximity without pursuit.
Elias Veras was rotating between the outer pens today. East wing, according to the guards. Tomorrow would be the inner holding block, closer to the council chambers. If I stayed where I was meant to be, I wouldn’t cross his path again.
Which meant I had to move.
But I couldn’t be seen moving toward him.
I would work the laundry lines nearest his route. Efficient. Quiet. Visible just long enough to register, never long enough to linger. If he was observant—and I knew he was—he would notice the same omega appearing twice where she shouldn’t.
I would create a pattern for him.
Then I would break it.
Step four: give him a reason not to report me.
That part I hadn’t solved yet.
I adjusted the basket against my hip as I moved through the service corridor, rough cloth biting into my forearm. My hair was wrapped tight beneath a dull brown scarf, shoulders rounded just enough to sell submission.
The posture came easily.
I hated that.
I hated how natural it felt—how my body remembered how to make itself smaller even when my mind refused.
Guards passed at the far end of the hall. I slowed, letting two omegas drift ahead of me, then slipped sideways through a narrow arch leading toward the eastern yards.
Not running.
Never running.
Thirty paces from the wash yard, I shifted the basket, deliberately tilting it so a corner of damp fabric slipped loose. I stooped to catch it—slow, clumsy, forgettable—
And walked straight into a wall of heat and muscle.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. My shoulder struck first, then my back, stone biting through thin fabric. The basket slipped from my fingers and hit the ground with a hollow clatter.
For half a heartbeat, I didn’t understand what had happened.
Then a hand closed around my upper arm.
I froze.
Every plan disintegrated at once.
The grip wasn’t a guard’s careless restraint. It was firm. Controlled. Intentional.
“Where did you go?”
The voice was low. Too close.
I didn’t look up. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else. Elias Veras stood over me, brows drawn together, his grip tightening just enough to steady me as my body locked rigid.
“You were reassigned to the southern pen,” he continued evenly. “You weren’t there.”
My stomach clenched. Fear—sharp and cold. It almost felt like concern.
No. Don’t be foolish.
I stayed silent.
His fingers tightened fractionally. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind me he could.
“I don’t like being followed,” he said. “And I don’t like people who vanish when they’re told to stay put.”
Followed.
Ice slid through my veins. I hadn’t even started the plan yet.
I shook my head once. Deaf. Mute. Obedient.
His grip didn’t loosen.
“That’s not an answer.”
I risked lifting my gaze just enough to look at his chest—not his face. Dark fabric. The steady rise and fall of his breath. He smelled faintly of leather and smoke. Nothing sharp. Nothing cruel.
Still dangerous.
“I went looking for you,” he said quietly.
The words hit harder than any threat.
Looking.
Not reporting. Not ordering.
My pulse stuttered.
I felt it then—the way his attention sharpened. Focused. His gaze dropped briefly, not to my hands or my face, but lower, as if confirming something he already suspected.
His jaw tightened.
“You’re not where you’re supposed to be,” he said. “And somehow, you’re always where I am.”
My breath hitched.
A mistake.
He noticed.
Boots echoed at the far end of the corridor.
Think. Think.
I bent slowly to gather the fallen cloth, letting my hands shake just enough to be believable—fear, not guilt. I held the fabric out toward him, head bowed, shoulders curved inward.
Please let this be enough.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Then he exhaled.
A quiet sound. Resignation.
His hand released my arm—not abruptly, but carefully.
Without a word, he lifted his hands and began to sign.
Clean. Precise. Fluent.
Assigned where?
My pulse jumped.
So he knew.
I answered cautiously, dulling my movements.
Sent.
Wrong way.
Laundry.
I hated how convincing it felt.
His brows drew together.
You keep ending up near places I am.
That wasn’t accusation.
That was curiosity.
I shook my head more firmly. A clear denial. Then I took a half-step back—
Stone met my spine.
The wall.
Panic flared bright and sharp. I crushed it instantly.
His gaze dropped.
Not to my face.
To my abdomen.
My hand moved before I could stop it, instinctive, protective—my palm flattening over my stomach.
Something unreadable crossed his eyes.
He straightened.
Laundry duty, he signed. That’s your story.
I nodded.
Once.
Measured.
He stepped back—just enough to give me space.
And cover.
“Pick it up,” he said aloud, voice flat and official. For anyone listening.
I crouched immediately, gathering the cloth, my pulse still hammering. The corridor felt too open. The stone too cold.
When I stood again, basket secured, he had already turned away.
Then he paused.
Without looking back, his hands lifted briefly.
Stay where you’re assigned tonight.
A beat.
Don’t vanish again.
I dipped my head and walked past him. Three steps. Four. Five.
I didn’t run.
I didn’t look back.
Only when I turned the corner did I allow myself to breathe.
My plans were in ruins.
But one truth settled cold and heavy in my chest as I disappeared down the corridor—
I hadn’t needed to get his attention.
I already had it.